


safe and sound ( come morning light )

by keycchan



Series: dust to dust [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Survivor Guilt, deacon is very sad, nick just wants things to be okay, spoilers for operation ticonderoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 17:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: Ticonderoga's gone dark.Deacon relives his guilt all over again, and Nick just wants him to be okay.





	safe and sound ( come morning light )

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hornswaggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornswaggler/gifts).



> made for a fic trade with hornswaggler! sorry this took so long :^(  
> this was slightly rushed, and unbeta'd, so many apologies for any mistakes. hope you enjoy regardless!
> 
> warning for minor suicidal ideation, and a whole lot of guilt.

( “  **—**   _My man, Deacon. Still with the same old face?” High Rise says, laughing. “What, it’s been three whole months! You’re getting slow.”_

_And the church is musty, and there’s bodies everywhere. Blood splattered. Probably something poetic about that, if Deacon were looking. But he’s never been huge on poetry, no matter how often he quotes it._

_Deacon just grins. “I keep meaning to go to the face doctor, but who has the time, right?”_

_And that’s it, that’s all, just the church and dust and blood and it’s the last time, the last time, what a way to say goodbye **— )**_

 

* * *

 

 

There’s smoke. Smoke, and ozone, and the distinct smell of melted plastic, thick enough to choke on as the smell squeezes it’s way down his throat and makes him almost double over, his stomach churning and his eyes wide and watering. His skin doesn’t feel real. There’s blood and coolant caked beneath his nails. The world is spinning, fast and in a blur, and he can’t feel his heart beating, it’s too fast under his skin, he just wants to lie down and curl up and  _scream,_ just a little, please and thank you   —

“ —  _kid_? Hey, look at me, look — no, eyes up here, come on.” A voice comes from beside him. Familiarly warbled, deep — a warm hand comes to touch his shoulder, cup his cheek.

His world, temporarily, stabilizes itself. His eyes are still wide when he glances over, feeling incredibly vulnerable without his shades ( _they got lost in the firefight, somewhere, as if life hasn’t shat on him hard enough_ ) and yet, the person beside him doesn’t look at him any different. Just tense. Just worried. Just sympathetic, even though the guy’s got streaks of coolant running down one side of his body and his right arm is a mangled, metal mess.

Nick Valentine’s always been good at putting people before himself without even thinking about it.

Deacon’s never deserved that.

“I’m good. Solid. Absolutely  _aces_ ,” he manages, plastering a grin on his face, and the way Nick’s lips pull tight says  _bullshit_ , but the guy knows Deacon enough not to call that out. Not right now. Talking out of his ass is one of the few things he’s got to keep him stable in times like these, and sometimes you just gotta let a guy have his vices. Nick knows that, and doesn’t comment. (even more reason why Deacon doesn’t deserve this man. Damn it, Valentine.) “Just kinda disappointed cause I came here expecting a party, and there’s no hors d’ouevres to sample. Talk about terrible service.”

Nick manages to  _laugh_  at that, even like this. “Your pick of old world knowledge still surprises me.”

“What can I say, Valentine? I’m just a big ol’ brain in a cute meatsack.” Deacon grins, forced, but the words roll out easy. Easier than thinking, anyway, remembering blood on dark skin, cold to the touch, dull eyes, a familiar leather jacket, chest cavity completely caved in —  _can’t be that smart,_ Deacon’s mind snorts,  _cause if you were, maybe you could’ve seen this, could’ve saved them, could’ve saved Ticonderoga —_

No. No, he can’t, he can’t  _think_  about that right now, because he has to focus on getting them out of this shitpit alive. The hand — Nick’s one remaining good hand, the one with the skin — is enough to ground Deacon again, at least for the time being. He finds himself sucking in small, sharp hisses of air, steadies himself, and it’s enough. Has  _got_  to be enough, because if it isn’t, they’re both royally fucked, and Dez is gonna have his head and he’d have to go through some grand, mystical afterlife adventure to bring back Nick Valentine because there’s no way, in this life or the next, that he’s going to let Nick get hurt on his watch. Or at least, any more hurt than they are already.

Right now they’re still safe, hiding on the last floor before the ground floor in one of the empty rooms, pressed up against the wall to catch their breaths (or at least Deacon is, because he doesn’t get fancy synth lungs like Nick). But they won’t be for long. There’s more crap they’ll have to go through before they can make it out of this building, and said crap are guaranteed to come looking for them and corner them if they wait too long. They need to get a move on, or they’re going to land a minor case of severe  _deadness_. (in his mind, he laughs bitterly, and pointedly ignores the vice clamped down on his windpipe that’ll give way to hysterical panic any second.)

“How’s the leg?” Nick asks, this time. Like his own arm isn’t dangling uselessly at it’s side. (then again, Nick’s lucky enough that he can’t feel it. Or maybe not lucky, because it probably means some wires are damaged. Fuck.)

Deacon staples the grin on wide. “My leg — ol’ Nick, my dearest darling — is feeling  _fantastic_. Just you wait, I’ll dance a jig the second we get out of here. Hum a polka. Think you and I can have a hoedown back in HQ? I’m  _fine.”_

Deacon’s leg is, very simply, not fine. It was  _snapped_  in four different places earlier, and even though it’s been set and stimpak’d it’s still sore as all hell, and even then he’s pretty sure his ankle is twisted. He  _definitely_  has a fractured collarbone that he can’t spare the stimpak to fix up, and he’s sure he’s bruised more ribs than he even  _has_. Even Nick’s sporting injuries — his entire right arm is mangled to uselessness, there’s more than a few laser shots that almost caused a rupture in his coolant tubes (remedied temporarily by duct tape, ain’t that genius) and one eye is dim and won’t work.

Simply put: they got  _lucky_. A single Courser can take out an entire settlement of people on its own. The fact both he and Nick are still alive and  _moving_ , that means they got off  _lucky_.

( He wishes he could say the same for those here before them. He would —  _goddamn it all_ , he’d take Institute laser rifles to the face, he’d do a  _goddamn hula_  into a deathclaw pit and let himself be piked by raiders, skinned alive by muties, torn apart limb from limb by ferals  — would do  _anything,_ anything, if it’d meant none of this had to happen. If it meant everyone here got to  _live_ , if it meant  _safety_.

If it meant High Rise would still be alive, and Ticonderoga would be safe.

Bile rises in his throat. He stops thinking about it. )

A hand touches Deacon’s shoulder again, and he almost jolts out of his fucking  _skin_. He swears under his breath for reacting so violently — god, he  _knows_ it’s Nick — but Nick only looks at him, with nothing but understanding. Concern. The one good eye is still glowing a soft yellow, and the good hand is still on Deacon’s shoulder. Squeezing. Reassuring, soothing, grounding. Everything Deacon needs, but doesn’t deserve.

He sucks in a shaky breath and gently shifts away from Nick’s touch, before the last of his resolve breaks and the burning behind his eyes and in his throat rush forward. Nick doesn’t say anything. The burning goes  _hotter_.

“I— “ Deacon starts, and finds his voice shaking too much for his liking. He clamps his mouth shut, and inhales sharply through his nose. Empties his mind. Blanks it out  _completely_. He tries again. “We should probably get a move on. Pick up our caboose and vamoose.”

Nick takes only a second to nod back. “I’m not hearin’ much from downstairs, but there’s definitely somethin’.”

“We’ll keep low when we hit the staircase and see what we gotta deal with. Maybe it’ll just be radroaches. Or puppies!” It’s never just radroaches, or puppies.

Nick rolls his eyes, but there’s a small uptick in his lips that make Deacon’s head a little steadier. Temporarily, of course. He’s not stupid. But he can’t think about what’s happened. Not now, he — he literally  _can’t_ , if they’re going to make it out of this alive. You learn quick, in the wastes, that there’s a time and place for grief. Doesn’t matter how much you’ve lost, doesn’t matter if your loss shakes your core, if it leaves you nothing but a husk, if it’s everything you’ve ever loved gone. There’s a time and place for grief, and Deacon  _refuses_  to lose even more than he’s already lost today by putting Nick in even more danger.

( If he does, after all these years,  _decades_  of fighting and losing people, it might finally be the thing that breaks him. )

He settles his mind into a static buzz. Concentrates on what’s ahead. He crawls forward, trusting Nick to follow after, and is satisfied to hear careful footsteps behind him as they exit the room and make gradual, slow steps down the staircase. Deacon’s learnt ages ago how to effectively render himself invisible to the world, even without a stealthboy. How to balance his weight and feel the terrain. When he wants to, he’s practically  _soundless_. 

Useful, in a situation like this, where he can use it to hide while also letting it help Nick, who has his hearing amped up to the maximum and doesn’t need any other distractions besides finding out how many hostiles are waiting to shoot them full of holes below. It takes a toll on Deacon’s sore leg and busted ankle, but the stim is doing it’s job of holding everything together, and so long as he doesn’t place a whole lot of weight on the ruined ankle, Deacon’s fine. He’ll just have to grit his teeth and make do.

The upstairs is all quiet. Nick pauses, beside Deacon, and Deacon stops too.

“Two gen 2s.” Nick whispers, so quiet it’s almost nothing. “Another set of steps, too soft to — “

“Courser.” Deacon grits, and Nick pauses, before nodding. Deacon swears.

“If you’ve got a plan, doll, now’d be the time.” Nick whispers. Keeps his eye trained forward.

Deacon frowns. Because he does have a plan, but it’s not a solid one, and he  _hates_  making plans on the fly that he can’t run backups A to Z for beforehand. But part of the job means thinking on your feet, and right now, that’s crucial.

The Railroad’s dealt with Coursers before, but most of them had been ambushes. Surprised, dick moves from the Institute, popping up where they’re least expected and agents getting killed after caught in a panic. Coursers, on their own, are about as dangerous as a small army of Brotherhood paladins decked in power armour and only slightly less indestructible, if only because they lack the metal outer body that the Brotherhood troops show off. What makes them even  _more_  dangerous is the fact that they’re quiet as hell, intelligent, and perceptive. All it takes is one to surprise you, and you’re done for.

But that’s what they’d known  _before_. Ever since Vault 111 spat out a certain vault dweller, ever since Lamb’d come crawling to their HQ and offering all of herself to chase down the boogeyman that’d stolen her son, it’s different.

Thanks to Lamb, they’ve found out that Coursers can be killed.

( Lamb’d done it before, with Curie at her side. And Lamb had managed to take down the Courser. Had managed to kill it, rip out it’s chip, and come out  _alive_. Yeah, she’s missing an arm for it, and had to spend two weeks drugged enough to kill a brahmin and a month recovering proper, but she could be one of the first people to successfully kill a Courser.  _Alone,_ because while Curie’s one of the most brilliant medical minds in the ‘Wealth right now probably, she has no idea how to handle a gun, especially in the nice, meaty new body the Railroad’s provided.

It means that Coursers are defeatable. It means that they can be driven away. It meant, suddenly, the Railroad’s got a proper  _chance_  for actually, properly,  _fighting_  the Institute back. )

“You hang back here — ” Deacon starts, and shoots a pointed look right as Nick’s expression turns into disbelief. “ — you  _hang back_ , and I take our stealth boys and try to get to the Courser. Wait for me. The second you hear my gun fire, you take down the gen 2s. The Courser will be too distracted by me to go after you. And once you take those gen 2s out, you can help me.”

 _Or at least finish the job_ , Deacon finishes in his head, because let’s be real — there’s always a solid chance that something will go wrong. And right now, in this state, Deacon knows he’s got no chance if he botches this one up. If he misses, if he gets caught, that’s it. End of the line.  _Finito_ , no epilogue except for hoping that raiders don’t come by and use him as an example by mounting him on a pike. He’d rather be eaten by muties; that way at least there’ll be nothing left.

This could be the last time he ever talks to Nick, and Deacon wants to just lie down.

( He’ll be able to see everyone again. Everyone he’s ever lost. Every agent he’d left behind, every person slaughtered unjustly while he got out fine. Tommy Whispers, High Rise. Maybe they’ll forgive him. Maybe he’ll finally be able to redeem himself, and be at  _peace_. )

“Are you kiddin’ me? You expect me to let you walk right up to a Courser?” Nick hisses, and his tone is so protective that Deacon’s chest hurts. Brows furrowed, looking almost furiously worried, and Deacon wants to laugh and cry because damn it all, he doesn’t deserve this kindness. “I haven’t lost you, and I ain’t ever planning to.”

“You’re not gonna lose me.” Deacon says, and the lie is sour on his tongue. If his last words to Nick are gonna be lies, he’d  _better_ make sure the Courser goes down with him. He owes that much. “Nick.  _Trust me_.”

Nick pauses at that. Seems to debate with himself in his head, before letting out that sigh that Deacon  _knows_  means he’s giving in.

“I trust you. Always will.” Nick says. “Doesn’t mean I like it, though.”

Deacon grins, and it’s only half forced, this time. It only grows harder when he looks at Nick — the one good eye boring into Deacon, a worried frown, so honestly worried and so fucking  _loving —_ Deacon turns away, and he knows too fast, but focuses, takes out the last stealthboy they’ve got, attaches it to his belt. This’ll be their only chance against this last Courser. They have to win. They have to make it out alive.

He turns around, right at the last second, and presses one last kiss to the corner of Nick’s mouth just in case Deacon doesn’t.

He turns back around before Nick can react. Flicks on the stealthboy, and disappears.

The first trick to killing a Courser is to out-sneak them. To surprise them right back, and that’s where 99% of people have the problem anyway. Regular folks don’t know jack about stealth, and the Brotherhood are about as quiet and sneaky as an injured deathclaw in a room full of tin cans blowing a vuvuzela. To kill a Courser, you need a metric ton of patience, a pretty ridiculous amount of nerve, and a stealth boy, and you need to spot it before it spots you. It’s the  _only thing_  that’ll give you an advantage. Botch that up, and you just hope your body doesn’t get eaten by feral dogs before friends or family find you (if you have any to find you in the first place.)

 _Ha_ , he hopes he can pull this off. Between the many busted things in his body right now and the fact he’s fighting off what might be the breakdown of the  _century_ , the only thing that’s keeping him going right now is Nick and a whole lot more adrenaline than a guy should ever experience in his lifetime. If he survives this, he’s gonna collapse.

( He’s kind of hoping he doesn’t have to survive this. Maybe it’s cowardice — it probably is, let’s be real — but then at least he’ll be done. It’ll be over for him. He can leave the rest of the fight to the others, to people better than him.

He’s just so damned  _tired_. )

That’s for later, though. He erases everything in his mind, keeps it to a dull static while he focuses on what’s directly ahead of him as he makes his way down the steps, taking care of his ankle. There’s limited time on the stealth-boy, but moving fast is a no-go. Coursers are ridiculously perceptive, and if he dares to go full sprint into this, it’s an almost guaranteed thought that the Courser will see the shimmer of the stealth-boy’s field, and he could mess up just by putting out his ankle wrong. No, he’s going to have to move at the speed of ass. And isn’t that fun, when any wrong movement’s going to get his neck snapped like a twig? Fun times with the Institute.

The stairs are, at least, not creaky as he makes his way down. Weapon drawn, eyes trained on the enemy in front. He notes that Nick is, as always, right: there’s two gen 2 synths perched in waiting, looking more creepy than they’ve got the right to be (and  _way_  less handsome than  _his_  guy, Deacon’s half-delirious mind supplies to ease the mood), and the Courser is standing right at the entrance to the place, looking clean and super unamused. ( _Get in line, pal_ , Deacon thinks.)

Moving about quiet in the wasteland is a skill that’s trained and hard-earned over the years. Two steps in any direction is probably rubble that can either trip you or kill you (or both, because the world just  _works that way_  sometimes) and Deacon’s seen enough of both in his time traipsing around the wastes to know better. He always measures his footsteps. Always keeps one eye on each step forward he’s making. Always does calculations. Being very,  _very_  careful.

(  _Except for the each time it counts. Except they’d probably been too loud, too obvious when they were transporting H2-22 down here. It has to be Deacon’s fault for not knowing better, for not ducking low and keeping the team the same, for not guiding Lamb, shouldn’t have mattered how much more time they’d be adding to their trip. If he’d been paying more attention, been more careful, this wouldn’t have happened. Ticon would still be up and running. High Rise would still be alive._

 _It’s his fault. Whose else could it be? Stupid, stupid, stupid_  — )

Ticonderoga’s always been amazingly well-kept, but only upstairs, where everyone’s at. Down here, it’s supposed to come off as just another ruin, just another relic of the old-world that only a handful of people remember. Down here it’s still all dust and junk and rubble, and Deacon has to move like he’s doing gymnastics on eggshells. One mis-step and they could be, literally, dead. He can’t fuck this up.

So of course, as soon as he’s almost round the corner to get a good shot at the Courser, his foot finds a squashed tin can.

The sound it makes feels more like a deathclaw’s earth-shattering roar than just the metallic little crunch it does. All at once — he can feel the breath in his lungs  _freeze_ , his heartbeat quickening and slowing down to an almost stop, and his eyes are so wide he’s sure if he coughs they’ll come flying out of their sockets. He feels eyes turn to where he is. He sees the quirk in the Courser’s brow.  _Searching_.

The thoughts that come bursting forth from his mind happens in the span of maybe a second, two at most:  _this is it, this is how I’m going, over two decades of doing work for the Railroad and getting shot at and blasted with and the thing that’s gonna kill me is a tin can_. It’s fitting, sort of. He’s always been a coward anyway, what better way to go than this? Going out with a whimper instead of a bang. He almost wants to laugh, if he weren’t terrified out of his fucking  _mind,_ he wants to apologize to Nick and apologize to Dez and apologize to Lamb and the whole fucking world and he wants to, he wants to, he wants to  _live —_

**Bang!**

Deacon turns so fast it feels like his neck’s about to snap, and he just catches one of the gen 2s going down, and time throws him back into reality.

Nick’s gun. That was definitely Nick’s gun, and he watches as the remaining gen 2 aims it’s laser rifle up to the staircase, the other a heap on the floor, still releasing sparks of electricity from the place in it’s metal skull where Nick’s bullet had made home nicely. And then Deacon realizes that the Courser has turned around too, raised it’s arm, smacked something down, and  _disappears_. 

Deacon’s heart  _stops._

Stealth boy. Or whatever amped up version the Institute has. Point is, it’s invisible, and it takes a fraction of a second for Deacon to listen to the fear clawing at his throat that it’s going for  _Nick_ , and that’s the last push he needs to shake off the nerves that hold him down, as he realizes he’s still got time before his own stealth boy runs out. The Courser hasn’t noticed him yet. He has, as of right now, maybe ten seconds before either his stealth boy runs out or Nick gets killed.

( He refuses to let that happen. He can’t. He’d rather die a thousand times than let that happen. He can’t  _keep losing people._ )

The second trick to killing a Courser is to never aim for it’s body unless it’s, somehow, stripped birthday-suit nude, which Deacon doubts is the newest Institute trend. He’d caught on quick, after he and Lamb took one out with the help of a few other Railroad agents, that regular bullets to those heavy black coats they wear don’t do jack diddly. He doesn’t know what kind of technology the Institute’s got to weave clothes  _that_  ballistic-proof, but if their new generation synths are anything to go by, those coats are nigh indestructible. You have to hit the Coursers in the head, or they’ll never go down.

Deacon keeps low but takes braver steps forward, doesn’t care about his ankle anymore, keeping an eye on the shimmer of the stealth field surrounding the Courser, refusing to look away. If he takes his eyes off of it for a second, he’ll lose it, and he’ll lose Nick, and if that happens he’ll lose himself and Dez would be  _really_  mad if that happened. He just moves forward, closer and closer, until he can almost smell the blood and copper on the Courser’s skin. The smell of ozone.

Deacon raises the gun in his hand, and aims for the head.

The third trick to killing a Courser is —

Plasma can go through  _anything_.

 

* * *

 

The fight is, honestly, kind of anti-climatic. And don’t get him wrong, that’s a  _good_  thing.

Nick doesn’t know if it’s his own synth perception or just him being real lucky, but he catches Deacon right as the stealth boy runs out of charge, and he sees the glint of green before three shots ring out.

The Courser goes down without a fight.

Not like Nick can blame it. Plasma eats through anything, irreparable damage — not even a Courser can take it, especially direct hits to the head. The last gen 2 standing seems almost confused, like it doesn’t know which target to focus on. Nick gives it an easy way out by nailing it twice in the chest, before coming down the stairs and landing his foot down  _hard_  on the gen 2′s throat. It snaps, and fizzles out of life. Out of the corner of his one good eye, he sees the Courser’s body facedown on the ground, melted green goop where it’s head used to be. Ain’t a pretty way to go, but it’s a Courser. Don’t have a choice with those ones.

He sees Deacon a half second after, sitting hunched over on the ground, and Nick doesn’t even take a moment to think, barely registers  _hurt_  before he hurries on over. He doesn’t see any new injuries besides from whatever they’d already gotten before, which is good — but the way the kid’s shoulders tremble, the way those eyes are screwed shut — they say it’s a different kind of hurt. One Nick’s intimately familiar with, and makes his own mouth twitch downwards in worry and sympathy.

( Nick’s gone on a few Railroad missions. He’s not a full agent, of course — he’s too recognizable to ever be, and his rep precedes him — but he’s gone on a few where extra firepower or Boston geography know-how’s necessary. So he knows some of the key folk in the organization. Knows Deacon and Lamb, sure. Glory too.

He also met High Rise, once. )

“Hey, sweetheart. You alright?” Nick asks, kneeling down carefully, wincing as the words come out of his mouth. Stupid question.

Deacon’s delirious little laugh’s answer enough. “Just  _peachy_. I mean, sure, we just lost an entire safehouse and a lot of great agents, but at least we killed like, two Coursers. Job well done. We gotta  _accentuate the positives_ , baby.”

Not alright, then. Nick doesn’t take offense to it. Can’t, because he can see the way Deacon’s shoulder’s shake, the thin film of moisture in the man’s eyes that don’t have shades to hide them anymore. Nick’s only met High Rise a grand total of twice, but he knows that High Rise is —  _was_ , a great man. Knows that he and Deacon had gone way back. Years and years and years. Over a decade, easy.

He knows the pain of losing someone close to you. People you work with, people you see on the regular, people who you’ve seen with messy hair and grouchy voices before their morning coffee, people who’ve smacked you on the back for a job well done — and suddenly they’re gone, leaving only their ghosts behind where they once were. Leaving the people they love wondering whether they should’ve  _known_. Nick knows the pain.

Sometimes, he still feels Jenny’s fingers on his hand when he touches coffee mugs.

But no matter what, or how many times — it never hurts any less. And for as long as Nick’s known Deacon, for all the time they’ve spent together, for every bullet dodged for each other, for every quiet secret whispered late at night and every press of their mouths, Deacon’s life has been the Railroad. Always, and has been for decades, if Nick’s intuition and sleuthing is right. To lose so many, again and again and again — it’s a surprise that Deacon’s held up for so long. Through so much. He’s almost  _proud_  of the kid, for being so strong. For still  _being here_.

But no one’s supposed to be strong for so long without a break, though. And in the past seven years they’ve been friends, and the two years they’ve been, well,  _together —_ because ‘boyfriends’ is too juvenile, too light to describe how close they feel — it’s been work, non-stop, for Deacon. Always, always. He’s only ever seen Deacon crack twice. This would make it three.

So Nick just says, “C’mon, lets get a move on.” Puts a careful arm around Deacon, gentle but firm, squeezes him a little. Presses his mouth against the cooling terror-sweat of his temple. Deacon doesn’t cry, but he’s shaking like a house made of matchsticks in an eartHQuake, so Nick doesn’t say anything when Deacon uses his good hand and latches onto Nick’s coat. Because as much as he wants to give the kid some time to digest these things, to let it all out — the Institute will be wondering why two of their Coursers aren’t back yet, and neither of them can face even more coming by to investigate.

If Nick’s always wary, though, Deacon’s outright  _paranoid_. Probably already knows the risks. Nick isn’t surprised when Deacon doesn’t answer, only nods, and Nick helps him up (his right arm may be useless, but it’s not like it hurts, and being a synth makes him a lot stronger than the average human) and supports Deacon on his side. 

It’s awkward, for sure; Deacon’s leg has to be sore, with the hurt ankle, and he walks funny because of it, and Nick’s trying not to jostle any internal things that might be rattling around inside himself, but they make do. They turn away, and hobble from the husk of Ticonderoga, leaving the bodies, leaving the memories, the smoking ashes of the agents that once lived there. They can’t do anything about that. They don’t have the time.

But at least, just this once, it seems like the Wealth’s got a little mercy in it. A rarity these days, and one Nick’s not gonna spit in the face in. They don’t run into any trouble on their slow walk back, not even as the sun dips down beneath the horizon and paints the world orange, red, like an infected wound. Nick feels Deacon shake beside him. He doesn’t bother to look, knows the kid doesn’t want to be seen this way. At some point, he gives Deacon his hat, which is somehow still in one piece. It’s no pair of tinted eyewear, sure, but it offers the same protection: hiding Deacon’s face if he wants. Deacon doesn’t reject it.

In the couple of hours it takes to walk back to Railroad HQ, they walk in silence. Nick doesn’t know whether Deacon unravels or keeps himself together in that frame of time — he doesn’t look, out of respect, but keeps him close. The shaking goes down, slowly, but the kid never stops the trembling. Nick doesn’t blame him. Just keeps them walking along, real slow-like, taking wide berths around raider camps and supermutant nests, doesn’t matter if it tacks on a whole lot of extra time. Neither of them are in any condition to whack a molerat, let alone take on trigger-happy raider gangs.

Either way, by the time they get back to the Old North Church that houses the Railroad — and Nick’s sure that there’s something poetic in that, somehow, but he hasn’t got the energy to think that one out — the sun’s just about gone, and Deacon’s standing as straight as he can be. Face unreadable, body rigid, the trembling still there though. The stairs leading down the tunnel is unkind on the both of them, but they make do.

Nick gets the entrance open with his good arm. He feels something being put back on his head.

Deacon’s smiling when Nick turns to look, but Nick doesn’t buy it, not for a second. There are bags under his eyes that could hold the sun, and the smile is all wrong, strangled and badly placed, strained. Nothing can hide the misery behind Deacon’s eyes, pained and exhausted. Nothing can hide the tremor in his hands.

Deacon says, “Hey, think I can get Becky Fallon to sew me up a neat matching costume?”

Nick doesn’t answer. Just leans forward, and presses his lips to Deacon’s temple. Nothing can hide the way some strangled noise comes out from the Deacon’s throat, and Nick just wants to protect him.

By God, he  _will._

 

* * *

 

 

They’re greeted by Desdemona when the entrance finishes creaking open, and they walk in. HQ’s busy these days, and there’s no question as to why. Ever since Lamb got her ticket into the Institute, things have been hectic, trying to prep everything in for the eventual finale of this Commonwealth act. The Institute, dismantled and destroyed, but only if they can pull it off. And Lamb’s been in the Institute for increasingly longer periods of time, taking on Railroad missions less. It’s a helluva worry, but everyone’s always fearing the worst. Paranoia keeps the folk of the Commonwealth alive.

( Especially now, now that they know who the leader of the Institute is. The Railroad’s lost the card that got Lamb on their side. Now, they just hope that Lamb’s loyalty will fall in their favour. )

And Desdemona might be second in terms of paranoia just compared to Deacon. Nick doesn’t need two good eyes to see the weight on her shoulders, bright red hair tangled and frizzy, fingernails caked with dirt, skin saying she hasn’t washed in probably weeks. A cigarette dangles from parched lips when she sees them, and Nick suddenly feels like having one of his own, before realizing he’d left his last pack in Diamond City. Damn.

Their states probably say enough. Desdemona’s face pinches into frustrated sorrow.

“No one left?” Is all she says, and Nick shakes his head same time Deacon does.

“Ticon’s completely wiped. All hands lost.” Deacon says. Eyes hardened.

“Courser got ‘em all. Ain’t nothin’ left but ash now.” Nick takes over. “We wiped out them out, though, don’t gotta worry ‘bout that none.”

Desdemona’s face is creased with frustration. Disappointment, worry. Tension in every furrow of her brow, rigid in her posture, and for the moment she and Deacon look almost the same in their exhaustion. The news ripples over the HQ like a breeze, troubled faces and some in mourning, others looking more confused than anything. Newer agents, probably. Nick hasn’t been back to this place for a good few months.

Desdemona’s pinches her lips to a thin line. Looking like the world’s on her shoulders, and then some. There’s nicotine on her fingers, and she thinks awhile before stubbing out the cigarette. Deacon hasn’t moved.

“That’s not what I wanted to hear, but it’s not like we it’s the first time. And Ticon was one of our better safehouses. Damn it.” Desdemona says. Blue eyes look up, and Nick feels nothing but pity circling his beat up pump of coolant. Her eyes look at Nick, and then flicker back to Deacon. The same pity softens her face, and she sighs. “Good job, though, both of you, for eliminating the Coursers. You’ve done us a world of good. The rest of you, back to work! We can count our dead  _after_  we destroy the Institute.”

(  _If we can,_ Nick wants to say, but he keeps his trap firmly shut. It’s something everyone knows, an unspoken, harsh truth. He doesn’t need to voice it. Everyone already knows. It’s why they’re all working so hard to prepare for the worst, why everyone’s working double time to make sure everything’s in place, to avoid as many screwups as possible, make sure something like Ticonderoga doesn’t happen again. Why Deacon’s worked so long without being able to find the time to breathe  _in_. )

There’s only a brief lull in the place before the sound of people resuming their jobs comes back. Talking, tapping, papers being shuffled around. Just because some good folk have died, after all, doesn’t mean the war is over. Just means that everyone else has to carry on without and hope the sacrifice was worth all of it.

“think I’m gonna head back to Diamond City tonight. Got some business to take care of.” Nick says, once most of the workers have gone back to doing their jobs, and Desdemona nods. Night’s gonna fall soon, but the Minutemen patrols going through Boston have been keeping the streets safer than they were two years ago. Preston’s done  _miracles_ , as new general of the Minutemen. “Think I’ll need an agent to head up with me.”

Desdemona’s eyes flicker, at that, to Deacon just as Nick’s remaining good one does, and he sees the man’s body turn rigid as blue eyes turn back up to him. Wants to argue, Nick is willing to bet. Wants to stay, see what else he can do, wants to keep helping, working. Will keep working himself to the bone if the world’ll let him, would rather burn out than risk anyone else getting hurt. Nick knows it. Has seen it happening for all the time he’s known Deacon, been  _involved_ , and he’s been good at keeping a lid on it because a cause like this means no one gets to rest easy.

But just this once, Nick’s not gonna let this one slide. Because the exhaustion weighing Deacon down might just kill him. Pull him down, sinking, into the weight of a thousand deaths that Deacon’s been trying so hard to ignore. Nick knows about the nights Deacon wakes up in a cold sweat, knows the kid barely sleeps three hours at a time because of the nightmares and the pain, knows about the rolled up towels clenched between teeth at night to keep the crying quiet. Survivor’s guilt ain’t easy to deal with. And Deacon’s survived almost three waves of mass Railroad slaughter. Nick knows if the kid doesn’t take a breather now, the rest of the work might destroy him.

He’s ready to argue about this if he needs to. Willing to go head to head with either or both of them, Desdemona and Deacon, if they won’t let Nick take Deacon back with Diamond City with him, or at least get Deacon some time away from missions, at least a day or two. Deacon is Desdemona’s best agent, has been working hard for decades, barely any breaks. And Desdemona will have to let him go if she still wants him  _alive_  for the future of the Railroad. By god, Nick will do whatever it takes to —

“Of course.” Desdemona says. Nick’s would-be brows rise up. She looks tired, but doesn’t look angry about the decision. Looks almost relieved. Nick’s limbs feel a little lighter. Maybe she understands. “Get Tinker Tom to do some repairs on you first, and bring Deacon over to Carrington. As soon as you’re both patched up, you’re free to leave. We’ll send a runner if anything comes up that needs either or both of you.”

“Will do, ma’am.” Nick says, tips his hat and smiles, gratitude in the way the edges of Desdemona’s lips catch upwards too.

Which leaves only Deacon. There’s a brief moment of silence, here — tense, almost, Nick watching Deacon and Desdemona with half an eye on him. Deacon, shoulders tense, looking like he’s about to argue with the both of them to  _stay_ , because there’s always work to be done. Nick doesn’t blame him, but he won’t let him get his way either.

Except — it seems that doesn’t need to be done, because after a moment of held breathing, Deacon just. Slumps. Defeated, exhaustion in every cord of muscle running down a bruised and battered body, yet still somehow tense, and his smile is forced and lopsided, almost helpless. Nick almost doesn’t want to wait for Tinker Tom to get to him. Wants to take Deacon far away now, where nothing will hurt the him anymore. The Wealth has already done too much damage. The man needs a rest.

“Well, boss’ orders.” Deacon relents, voice full of forced cheer as he lazily salutes. “You sure Carrington isn’t telling you to do this just so I’ll be out of his hair for a few days?”

“I can assure you, _agent_ , she hasn’t listened to me about that before and she won’t do it now.” Carrington’s voice pipes up, from the side of the room. His expression stays the same — disgruntled and unamused, and somehow, it’s comforting. “Now come over here and let me see what needs mending. A few days away will do you good. Perhaps you’ll even _stop_ undoing all my precious hard work.”

That startles a small laugh out of Deacon, small and a bare second of it, but it’s enough to lift a weight off of Nick’s shoulders. He smiles too.

Being a mechanical synth has it’s perks and downsides, Nick supposes, as with most things. His right arm is a mangled mess, sure, but it’s nothing plenty of hammering can’t fix, and according to tinker tom — or at least, whatever Nick can make out of the fast-paced gibberish the man yammers out — all the finer bits are still intact, the tinny wires that send signals of sensation to his mind just damaged enough to disconnect from the signal receptors.

“Nothing a lil’ wonderglue can’t fix!” Tom chirps, pupils dilated with mentats, hands oddly stable even with the rest of him as shaky as a pre-war chihuahua. “A robot’s stimpak!”

The eye is slightly easier, with just a tweak around the base of Nick’s skull, and after a final check on his insides — something he’s gotten used to in time, being awake and being able to have someone play peekaboo with his innards — he’s deemed ready to go. His arm still isn’t fully fixed yet — hammering it out will take more time than Nick wants to spend in Railroad HQ right now, so he’ll get that done back in Diamond City, maybe give Arturo a few caps for some help with it.

He looks up in time to see Carrington jab a stimpak into Deacon’s wrist, and the cringe that happens right after. Makes him smile, a little. Carrington makes Nick promise to keep Deacon rested for the time he’s been given under penalty of death — and with the look the good doctor is shooting Deacon, Nick’s wondering if the claim might really be legitimate — and Nick agrees. Takes whatever is necessary, lets Desdemona route out their path back to Diamond City, using a route the Minutemen patrols cleared out a few days back. Somewhere along the line, Deacon finds a new pair of shades, and with them comes a certain relief that lets Deacon grin again. It’ll be enough.

They get just a few goodbyes right as they leave out the escape tunnel, Desdemona immediately getting back to work. Ain’t no rest for the wicked, after all, except where Nick can help it. Even now, he’ll only be able to have Deacon with him for a few days. Maybe a week at best, if things go well and  _right_  in the Wealth for once, if things go okay. It’ll have to be enough, to give Deacon a break.

Commonwealth air is chilly at night. Autumn’s coming up quick, but nothing too serious just yet, no major dips in the temperature. The path back to Diamond City is clear — just as Drummer Boy had said, what with the Minutemen patrols expanding out these days. It’ll be just an hour or two’s walk away if they don’t get interrupted. Deacon chatters for the first half hour or so — inane things, things that don’t matter, like always. Nick just hums and nods.

Somewhere along the way, he lets his mostly intact hand reach for Deacon’s. Holds on, fingers intertwined like they’ve always belonged there. Deacon eventually falls silent. They walk quiet, and okay.

 

* * *

 

 

“Nicky, s’at you? Don’t you got a watch or somethin’ in that noggin’ of yours?”

He sees Deacon snort beside him, and Nick just shakes his head, smiling apologetically. He knows it’s late — Diamond City gates shut for the day at 10pm, and don’t open again till 7am the next day unless there’s an emergency of some sort. He doesn’t feel glad about coming by this late and bothering the guards on duty either, but he didn’t bring himself and Deacon all the way from the Old North Church here to just sleep out in the cold. And besides, being Diamond City’s only private eye comes with it’s perks. What’s the use if he doesn’t use it every once in awhile?

“Real sorry ‘bout this, Mike. Can’t be helped.” Nick says apologetically, halfway tipping his hat to the intercom before he remembers it’s just that. “I’ll make it up to you.”

A snort comes over the other end, sounding near guilty. “Ain’t no need for that, Nicky, geez. I was just joking. You save my husband from a raider camp and you’ll make it up to  _me_? Just give me a sec to open up the gates.”

“Much appreciated, mike.” Nick replies, and takes a step back. Beside him, he sees Deacon quirk a brow. Nick notes that the kid looks... Better, more stable again. Tired, but stable.

For now.

“Well aren’t you just the Commonwealth’s biggest hero? Watch out, Valentine, you could drive the Minutemen out of business.” Deacon quips, half-grinning.

Nick snorts. “I’m good for findin’ lost spouses and missing cats. Getting shot at by raiders and mutants are just part of the job risks, not somethin’ I actively look for.”

“Then  _you_  break the news to Preston. Let’s see how  _you_  deal with those puppydog eyes.” Deacon replies, light and easy, right as the light rumble of the gate opening comes through. Nick just smiles, shakes his head.

It’s late enough in Diamond City that the market’s mostly quiet, except for Percy’s constant hovering and Takahashi’s humming, waiting on standby for any late-night customers. It’s not late enough that there aren’t folks still up, though — loud, booming laughter’s heard as they pass by the Dugout, whose source could only be Vadim. Nick doesn’t doubt half of Diamond City is there tonight either. Election season is coming up, and the city’s been a-buzz discussing mayor mcdonough’s threatened position, and rumours of Yefim possibly going up as a candidate. No doubt there are folks in there grilling him about it right now.

But beyond the muffled chatter behind the doors of the dugout, it’s quiet. Nothing but the hushed whispers of residents still awake, and the hum of the city’s robots. Nick supposes he can be considered one of them. Behind him, Deacon’s footsteps are almost non-existent — he moves like a shadow, effectively soundless when he wants to be, but right now, Nick presumes the tiredness is letting Deacon fall a little sloppy. Or, if he admits it to himself, selfishly  _assuming —_ he wants to think it’s because Deacon trusts him. Trusts Nick, to lead Deacon wherever, and still be safe. Nick only hopes. He won’t blame Deacon, otherwise.

The agency is dark when they approach, though the neon pink of his signs still glow in the dark alleyways. Paints their faces in stark relief, harsh contrasts — for a second, there, turning into where his office door is, Nick glances at Deacon, beside him. Sees the exhaustion, weariness and age, seeping into the line of Deacon’s face (and whether that’s real or just a side effect of all the face changes the kid’s gone through, Nick hasn’t sleuthed out yet) and the dash of pink across the reflective, dark pools of his shades. Nick sees the dry, chapped surface of Deacon’s lips, shadows painted on the dips in Deacon’s throat and collarbone beneath the flannel shirt, the edges of ginger fuzz beneath the dark pompadour wig that’s slipping —

( Nick thinks,  _beautiful_ , and almost forgets to turn the key. )

Ellie’s already gone home, back to Publick Occurences with Piper probably, when Nick finally has the good sense to enter and let Deacon in. He flicks on the lantern at his desk, doesn’t bother turning on all the lights — electricity is precious, now more than ever — and lets the room be painted in soft, dark ambers, flickering. Takes off his coat, then turns to Deacon, who looks... Exhausted. Even more so than earlier, slumping and leaning against the door. Like he’s left the last of his energy out on the doorstep.

Doesn’t mean Deacon’s lost the ability to talk, though. “So what’s this case we’re tackling, detective? Missing bagpipes? McDonough lost the stick up his ass? Oh, wait — impossible. Did Hawthorne lose another cat?” 

The question slowly snowballs into babbling. Familiar, at least, to Nick. He doesn’t respond directly, draping his coat over his chair, ignoring the neat piles of paperwork he’s got waiting on his desk, Ellie probably arranged them earlier. There’s work to be done, but it can wait. It can all wait, just for tonight. (and besides, there’s nothing in the ‘urgent’ tray Ellie’s set up, so. Nick can afford to slack, this once.)

“Could be. Haven’t checked. Hungry?” Nick asks, glancing up to Deacon. Keeps his voice low and gentle. “We got some cram lying around here somewhere. I think Ellie’s got some razorgrain bread and melon juice in here.”

“I’ll pass.” Deacon says, shaking his head. Voice low, rough, quiet, hint of a tired laugh underneath. “Kinda just... feel like passing out, right about now, actually. Looks like these missing kitties have to wait, huh?”

Nick understands. As much as he can, anyway, from his point of perspective, and walks over, taking Deacon’s hand in his own. He remembers, sort of, two years back when this was still new, each touch exciting, sending jolts of electricity down his circuits. It’s still there, now, but more subtle, always present but in the background, the heartbeat, the pulse of everything. The way their fingers intertwine feels like home, and Nick brings Deacon slowly upstairs.

There are spare clothes here. There always are — nothing Nick uses personally, of course, he’s admittedly developed a fondness to keep wearing his usual noir detective garb (”brand recognition,” Deacon said once, grinning.) And it’s not like he sweats. All the spares here are either Ellie’s — leftover from the days she used to live here, when she was covered in Vic’s Goodneighbour dirt and had nowhere else to go, before she met and moved in with Piper — or any scraps Nick’s found, or bought from the Fallons’, just in case any other folk in need came to his doorstep. ( It happens more often than one’d think. )

But there are a few that aren’t either’s. A white shirt, grey sweats, some socks tucked into one back corner of the closet. Rarely used, but well loved. Nick takes them out, now, leaves them on the bed while he heads back downstairs to extinguish the lantern before he accidentally burns the agency to the ground. He leaves his hat on the desk.

By the time he heads back up, Deacon’s already changed. Looks more comfortable, certainly, but the tiredness that weighs in every slumped, drained fibre of his form as he sits on the bed makes something inside Nick  _ache_. The wig and the shades are off, placed on the desk for another time. Shoes kicked off to the side. Nick doesn’t say a word as he does his own off, and climbs into bed with him, the springs creaking as they settle under the sheets, and off-colour white, still carrying the faint scent of hubflower soap, the kind only Becky Fallon knows how to make.

Nick doesn’t need his synth vision to know Deacon’s tense. Doesn’t ever really  _stop_  being tense, even when he’s slumped like this. Nick’s come to accept it, though it doesn’t mean he likes it one bit. For now, though — he scoots in a little closer, but not too close, half-sits while Deacon lies down. He doesn’t put his arms around Deacon, but he leaves himself close enough to touch. Deacon initiating touches is one thing, and small touches outside, but here, like this, in the quiet dark — this sort of intimacy, Nick lets Deacon decide what to do. How close to go.

It takes awhile. All that can be heard is the muffled, subtle sound of the eyebot passing by outside, playing soft classical music while travis takes a break, and the hum of Nick’s own internal workings. Coolant pumping slow and steady, the other mechanisms that make him tick doing their own thing, though he doesn’t know what half of them are. All the while, Deacon doesn’t move. Still as a statue, stiff as a corpse — Nick cuts the latter of that thought off. No. Now’s not the time. Won’t ever be, if Nick’s got a say in it, and Nick has a  _lot_  to say when it comes to Deacon.

“We started out together.” Deacon suddenly says. Voice almost echoes in the dark of the agency, just there and gone.

He doesn’t say anything after that, doesn’t follow. Nick waits, but there’s nothing, until there’s a silence so thick that Nick almost wonders if Deacon ever spoke up at all.

“... High Rise?” Nick asks. Softly, genuinely curious. He won’t push if Deacon doesn’t want to talk about the agent —  _late_  agent, and isn’t that just the shame — but sometimes it’s good, to talk it out.

And properly. Not the offhand, nonsensical rambling Deacon falls into, his charm and his defense mechanism.

“Yeah.” Deacon says, finally. And the tone is enough, it’s final.

Nick isn’t surprised. Doesn’t push anymore than that — Deacon barely reveals things about himself as is. To hear that small bit, just a sliver of history of not just Deacon, but a now-lost friend — Nick can’t ask for more than that. Instead, Nick just hums, quiet, and listens as Deacon takes in a sharp inhale, releasing it, shaky like a newborn faun. Nick hears, sees, Deacon scrubbing at his face roughly. Shaky, frustrated breathing. Trying to sleep and clearly failing.

Nick shifts, just a little, to be a little more on his side, so his intact hand is in closer reach. He keeps his eyes trained on anything but Deacon’s face — his eyes, after all, glow bright and yellow in the dark, and he doubts the anyone would appreciate them staring holes into the their face, watching. He keeps his eyes on Deacon’s shirt, instead. The wrinkles in the blanket, the floor. Anything but Deacon’s face. Deacon is allowed at least that much privacy.

Nick makes sure Deacon knows his hand’s coming. Clears his throat, gently, before brushing his fingers across Deacon’s arm. Doesn’t do more than that, especially when he feels Deacon tense at that, muscles locking rigid like a bird waiting to take off, startled and scared. And then — and then it’s  _good_ , it’s okay. Nick waits only a moment or two before he feels Deacon’s hand hold onto his. Calloused fingers, nails bitten to stubs. They smell like gunpowder and Commonwealth dirt. Nick wants to kiss them all.

He squeezes, a little, and hears Deacon’s breathing hitch. Sounds a little wet, and it’s okay. It’s okay. He’s allowed to cry — damn it all, out of anyone, Deacon’s allowed to cry. Allowed to  _mourn_. Of course, it’s all quiet, this grief almost soundless except for the breathing patterns, harsh, strangled, miserable and  _pained_.

Nick thumbs Deacon’s hand. Says, “He was a good man.”

The floodgates open.

And maybe it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else. It doesn’t  _sound_  like anything massive — just a single, strangled sob that escapes from Deacon’s throat, followed by a series more, each one quiet, each one shaky, but nothing huge. Nothing massive, nothing earth-shattering, nothing like that. Except it is. Except it’s  _everything_ , and Nick  _knows_  Deacon, by now. If not his whole past, at least what he is,  _who_  he is now.

By Deacon’s standards, each small sob must sound like a house collapsing in on itself.

Shaking. Deacon  _shaking_ , like a leaf in a hurricane, and even though there’s no trace of a voice in each sob, it’s still  _there_. Wet, strangled catches of breath that never seem to go down right, harsh swallows. Knees drawing up, Deacon sinking down. Hands  _squeezing_ , like letting go will mean Nick will go too —  _never_ , Nick thinks,  _never_   — and then Nick finally looks, finally lets his enhanced vision take in Deacon’s face, and.

Nick doesn’t have a heart. Not anymore, not for decades,  _centuries_  if you were going all technical — but this,  _this_ , if he still had one it’d be breaking. He doesn’t know the details, the schematics of his being right now, but something is making his chest ache, swelling in waves, and now, more than ever, Nick wishes things would be  _kinder_.

Deacon’s head is tipped back, a little, on the pillow — eyes scrunched shut, tight, tear tracks down his face as he squeezes tight and presses his free fist to them. Like if he does that hard enough, the crying will stop. Except it doesn’t, and each time Deacon takes in a ragged, pained breath through his mouth — because his nose is clogged, Nick’s willing to bet — Nick can see the way his jaw and lip quivers, each harsh swallow sticky and  _miserable_. Grieving, and  _guilty_ , over deaths the kid had no control over.

So Nick moves. Rolls a little more fully on his side, lets Deacon’s hand go — and there’s an odd, out-of-character startled noise at that, almost on the verge of  _panicky —_ and then he just. Pulls Deacon in, closer. Gently, a suggestion of movement. Holds Deacon’s shoulder, and just pulls it in a little. Won’t force the closeness if Deacon doesn’t want to.

Except — except Deacon  _does_ , and then he’s there, face buried somewhere on Nick’s chest, and hands, in tight fists, sharp knuckles digging into Nick’s chest, Nick’s hand pressing flat and firm over the weary broad of Deacon’s back, feeling every minute shake and quiver of a body breaking down hard with mourning, a kind of guilt and grief that burns you out and gnaws until there’s nothing left but exhaustion and emptiness. A body holding all the tension in the world, curling in on itself like if Deacon tries hard enough, he’ll disappear.

They stay like that for awhile. Nick buries his nose onto Deacon’s — well,  _scalp_ , a thin layer of ginger fuzz growing, holding onto the other man tight. Deacon’s crying slowly grows back to almost complete silence, only sometimes interrupted by a raw swallow or a hitch in the throat. Deacon shakes like he’s containing monuments of pain, slowly releasing it, and Nick only holds onto him. Keeps him here, grounded, slowly rubs circles over Deacon’s back, over shoulderblades and the gorgeous dip of his spine, every corded muscle under skin growing marred with age.

More than anything, now — Nick wants to protect him. No,  _no_ , not protect, Deacon can protect himself just fine, probably knows how to more than anyone else in the world — Nick wants to take care of him. Wants to hold him for more than this, wants it every day, for as much as Deacon is comfortable with. Nick  _wants_ , he wants Deacon in every way there is, and most of all, he wants Deacon: safe, happy. That cocky smile unclouded by hidden misery, eyes that don’t need a layer of shaded glass over them anymore. He wants Deacon to be  _okay_.

Because more than anything, this man’s gone through so much. More than anyone should be expected to deal with. And maybe, maybe there are folks out there who have it worse, but it doesn’t mean this doesn’t hurt just as much.  _Three times_ , now, the man before him’s watched Coursers wipe out his friends, the people he calls family, while he narrowly escapes. And an uncountable amount of times, now, that Railroad agents have been lost in general. And behind it all, Deacon playing a crucial role in keeping the Railroad running, functioning. Paying the price, never having a decent night’s sleep without one eye open, never being able to walk without measuring the sound of his footsteps. Can’t laugh without taking note of every exit in a room.

But this is the wasteland. Everyone makes sacrifices, everyone has their roles —  Nick can understand. Won’t blame anyone for it, won’t even blame the Railroad. It’s a good cause. Not always executed flawlessly, and even Nick sometimes wonders about their prioritizations, but they’re good people. He’s seen them, their work,  _Deacon’s_  work, what they’ve achieved. It’s good.

All Nick wants, at this point, is just for Deacon to  _be there_ , at the end of the day. Mostly whole, mostly okay. And Nick wants to be there when Deacon is, if he’ll have him. Allow Nick to help silence a few ghosts, allow Nick to give him a little more care, because no matter how strong the vessel, nothing works for long without care. Nick wants to offer what he can — to Deacon, to the causes Nick believes in, and now, now this is all he can do. Just, hold on.

( And Nick’s thought about it before, of course. Suggesting that Deacon quit the Railroad. Resign, for good, because he’s already done so much, more than most people could ever achieve in a lifetime. Nick wants to ask Deacon to come with him. To  _stay_ , for once, instead of being a song that washes away in the morning light, an aubade and a goodbye. 

He wonders, often, how domesticity will suit them. He thinks of waking up to Deacon’s face, everyday — one that stays the same, for once — and the crease of his smile, warm enough to melt the sun. The red of his hair, blue eyes like long forgotten summers from a world gone. Nick thinks about making sweet tato stew for Deacon, in the mornings, served with freshly baked razorgrain bread from the Myrna, while Deacon reads salvaged pre-war book, bought from traders or hand-scavenged. Thinks about kissing him, every morning, working through paperwork while Deacon quotes Proust; he thinks about running his good hand down Deacon’s back every night, curling his fist into the small of Deacon’s spine, and just loving. Loving all of Deacon. Deacon, allowing  _himself_  to be loved.

But it’s only a dream. Way off, the lowest probability. Because even if Deacon does leave, Nick can’t,  _won’t_  force Deacon to stay with him. Deacon deserves freedom. And even before that, even so, no one gets to leave the Railroad like this. No one gets to sign off and just leave the bloodshed and cause behind. Nick knows. Understands. Doesn’t resent anyone for it. If anything, beyond the worry, the urge to help — Nick, above all things, is  _proud_  of Deacon. For everything he’s survived through, for everyone he’s helped, even through the grief, the pressure, the  _death_. By  _god_ , Nick is  _proud,_ it stands triumphant,  _towering._

And the Commonwealth is a dangerous place. Nick’s learnt the hard way — a misplaced word, an unlocked door, a fire forgotten to be put out — it’s all it takes to get killed, out in the wastes. Trust is hard earned, for good reason.

But here, as he places his mouth to Deacon’s forehead, his temple, he thinks;  _home, this can be home for you, if you want it, if you’ll have me,_  and  _you, always, darlin’, I’ll leave the lights on for you._  )

 

* * *

 

 

Deacon wakes to his head aching. Throbbing sore, radiating from somewhere deep inside, like at some point in the night he’d thought it’d be a fantastic idea to start slamming his head against concrete walls. It makes him want to groan — but realisation that he can’t smell the must and dust of Old North Church, the realisation that he’s not in HQ — it makes him shoot up, headache be  _damned_ , eyes wide, panic and dread spiking in his pulse and for a second, for a  _second_ , blind fear makes him think  _Switchboard, this is the Switchboard again—_

“ — goodness, Ellie, it’s breakfast, not a feast, we’ll be fine not stuffing him like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

He recognizes that voice instantly. His mind says  _home_ , and then it says  _Nick_ , and then there’s a laugh so light and low and contagious that it can’t  _not_  be Ellie Perkins, and Deacon finds himself relaxing. The fear drains out, slowly, and his mind finally adjusts and registers as his muscles untense themselves. The detective agency. He’s in Diamond City, right now. In Nick’s home, in Nick’s bed. Things are okay. They’re still alive. He’s just here because —

(  “ —  _Nick, fuck, help me get this off of him — “ he’s choking, choking on his own breath and spit and the panic seizing his chest, because no, god no, not this shit again, he’s already lived through this and the Switchboard before, his lungs are 0.2 seconds from violently seizing up and throwing Deacon into the panic attack of the century —_

_Nick’s got way better strength than any human, perks of being a synth, and with Deacon’s desperation they lift the concrete rubble off of the body — off of High Rise. What’s left, anyway._

_And somehow Deacon had hoped, this entire time, fighting off synths and trying to evade a Courser, somehow he’s hoped that after all that High Rise would be okay. Some shot in the dark, a blind hope, that he’ll just need a stimpak or ten after they get the rubble off of him. But now all Deacon sees is red, red, eyes glazed over, mush where High Rise’s chest cavity used to be and Deacon, his eyes wide, and his stomach takes a nosedive before forcefully ejecting it’s contents from his throat —_  )

— right. Yeah.

He finds himself sinking back to the bed, tucking his forearms under the soft pillow — definitely salvaged from the wastes, whatever was made pre-war to fluff up these things definitely aren’t around anymore — and sinking down. Shuts and squeezes his eyes. Maybe if he shuts his eyes hard enough, he won’t see anything beyond the fireworks of pressure-colours exploding behind his eyes. Maybe if he wills it, he can make his mind forget everything. Or make his mind explode.

( Living is tiring. It won’t be the first time Deacon’s wished for it, and it won’t be the last. He finds himself grinning into the pillow, and his heart  _aches_  like the saddest goddamn melody he’s ever heard. )

High Rise wouldn’t ever let this kind of thing stand.

High Rise is —  _was_ , Deacon’s mind forcefully corrects, and Deacon buries his face in the pillow — High Rise was always someone who’d never take this stupid self-pity party. He’d have dragged Deacon up and out by now. Would make him focus by putting all the energy spent moping to go do something good. Save the world. Hug a baby. Things like that. Making up for a misspent youth, he’d always say, and Deacon could wholly understand.

And yet, here he is now, having what’s arguably the  _best_  pity party in the world. In bed, crying into his pillow like some pining southern belle. All balloons and confetti and aching grief.

 _Throw some depressing polka in here and we can dance all night_ , he thinks.

Sometimes he wonders what exactly he’s done to deserve this, besides being a complete asshole in his youth. But it's been decades. Hasn’t he done enough to repent? How many more people have to  _die_? Three times now, three times, twice whole slaughters and this time High Rise, High Rise who’s been there since the beginning,  _two decades_  of friendship, they’d been brothers in a new, wholesome sense —

And now High Rise, like everyone else Deacon’s hung around with, is dead. A pulpy mess in Ticonderoga. Can’t even give the guy a proper fucking  _funeral_ , and Deacon’s bitten down nails dig into the meat of his hand under the pillow while he laughs, strangled and delirious. High Rise had singlehandedly opened up half the safehouses in the Wealth, had made Ticonderoga one of the best and safest. And now he’s there, rotting with the bastards who killed him.

He wonders, like always, if it’s his fault. He’s almost  _sure_  he is. He’s been stationed as an agent to three major safehouses before this. Two of them got wiped out, almost completely.  _Slaughtered_. If his imagination’s working particularly spectacular today, he can see it all again. The wide eyes. Laser shots, bright blue and blinding, a dark flash of a Courser uniform. Blood, blood, explosions, and Deacon can  _smell_  the gunpowder and ozone, the palpable  _fear_ , makes his heart pump harder and terror in his veins, watching his friends get cut down, wiped  _out_ , him as the sole survivor, and even now he wonders if he should stick around HQ or will they —

(God. Imagining them dead; Desdemona, Drummer Boy, Tinker Tom. Hell, even Carrington. It makes Deacon’s stomach churn, and he wants to simultaneously cry and vomit and curl in so hard on himself he disappears.)

“ — Well hey, now. Good morning, sweetheart.”

The voice makes Deacon  _jolt,_ and he curses to himself inside for not noticing Nick coming up the stairs. How couldn’t he? It’s not like the guy moves like a whisper: Nick’s footsteps are always heavy, and the stairs up to this floor has one squeaky step. And Nick’s balancing food on a tray, too. Deacon wants to laugh and cry for not noticing. Maybe he’s just bad at this. Maybe this inattentiveness, these small mistakes, maybe him being just  _bad_ , maybe these stupid, careless wrong moves are why High Rise is fucking  _dead —_

 _“_ Morning, sunshine. Ain’t it just a glorious day.” Deacon manages to crack, and god, his voice sounds so  _wrecked_  he cringes. Keeps his face mostly buried, because there’s a lot of moisture near his eyes and Nick’s seen enough of that. “Birds chirping, children singing. Bet you a cap some lucky bastard’s out there with a fat man launcher. I’ll give you a hundred caps if you can make that bastard me.”

And then there’s the familiar sound of low, gentle laughter. Understanding. Kind. Deacon’s heart  _hurts_ , because Deacon doesn’t deserve that kindness.

“’fraid I can’t make that happen right now, but I  _can_  get you breakfast. C’mon. Sit up.” Nick says, and Deacon feels the edge of the bed  _dip_ , with Nick’s heavy weight. But it’s not too close. Nick’s trying to give Deacon his  _space_. Deacon doesn’t deserve this man, and he never will. “We... Couldn’t decide on what to get for you, so we just got a bit of what we thought you’d like. Ellie decided to tack on some other lil’ somethin’s.”

Deacon gives himself a second, and then two, of summoning the last of his strength and energy, before he finally sits up. Spackles on a tight, forced grin, and hopes Nick doesn’t point out how his eyes are red and puffy. And then that grin falters, and his eyes widen because — holy shit on a snack cake, Nick and Ellie must not know what ‘ a bit’ means. Because on the tray is a steaming bowl of Takahashi’s legendary shredded brahmin noodles. Deep fried mirelurk cakes. A mug of brahmin milk, and an unopened can of purified water. And, what’s definitely additions of bake-loving Ellie; razorgrain bread, freshly made, with tarberry jam. A sweet roll, golden brown, dipped with sweetened brahmin cream.

“If you guys are planning to string me up after this and beat me up with swatters until candy pops out, please tell Tinker Tom his MILAs are stupid for me. _Someone_ oughta let him know.” Deacon says, slightly in awe. The sight and smell makes his stomach rumble. “Holy  _shit_ , Nick. If I eat all this you won’t see me for a season. I’ll go full yao guai — better go find another bed, ‘cause I’ll be hibernating  _right here_.”

He hears Nick’s laugh again. Turns to see it — the way Nick’s eyes scrunch when he’s laughing, the lines of his face — and there’s another swell of fondness, affection for this man, and Deacon feels a proper, half smile pop up. Finds himself reaching over, slowly. Nick’s hand meets his halfway, and Nick immediately holds on firm. Rubs a thumb around Deacon’s hand, and Deacon finds himself, for once, struggling to find words.

“You deserve good, filling meals.” Nick says, eyes fixed on Deacon. Genuine. So sincere Deacon wants to look away, because he could never deserve this, could never deserve something like  _this_.

And it strikes a nerve somewhere, kind of resonates, and Deacon finds a bark of a laugh leaving his throat that sounds so  _sharp_ , so  _bitter_ , he can hardly believe it’s come from him. Wants to throw his mask back on, force a laugh and something witty, something good, something so Nick won’t have to worry.  _Is that what you’re into, Nick? Get me so fattened you can roll me out the door and knock out muties like a bowling ball to pins?_  Or  _wow, Valentine, sounds like a challenge_.

Something, anything, because Deacon doesn’t deserve a  _goddamned thing_  in this room and he’s too tired to see anything but. Because why does he get all this — food, shelter, a living  _saint_  like Nick Valentine, who’s been nothing but understanding and kind ever since they first met years ago, friends like Lamb and Ellie Perkins — while so many of his friends have died? Why does he get to wake up to Nick holding his hand while other agents, his  _colleagues_ , sometimes never wake up again? Why does  _Deacon_  get this, when he doesn’t deserve a   _thing_?

(  _Agent Foxtrot used to be in charge of package transport organization, and she had the most contagious, giggly laugh for someone who could take out someone else’s head from over a thousand yards. Agent Kingsman lost an arm saving a synth, loved brahmin milk for breakfast, always stole food from the common fridge in the switchboard. Yeller could take out an army of gen 1s with a missile launcher, and always restocked the common fridge. Sunshine could wrestle a yao guai and she loved sugarbombs. Doc Knocker was sarcasm in human form, and stitched Deacon up a thousand times. Tommy Whispers was the quietest heavy the Railroad’s ever seen, and the only person who understands Deacon’s love for mirelurk steaks._

 _All of them and more, all people. All good, righteous people. And somehow, out of all this, Deacon, he — the liar, the sinner, everything wrong with the Commonwealth — somehow he gets to live._ )

He wonders, always, whether it’s something he could’ve done. Wonders if he’d been more alert, had been  _better_  at his job, if he could’ve saved all these good people. He doesn’t know why he’s been spared, only that he shouldn’t be.

“Stop.”

Deacon’s eyes immediately flicker up, slamming back to reality like a speeding deathclaw, and immediately sees Nick’s eyes. Glowing yellow, a beacon in the dark, always sincerity, always honesty, and right now they pierce through Deacon like Nick can see his soul, in there. And maybe he can. Nick’s always been stubborn. A pursuer of truth, of what’s right, and it could make Deacon laugh over their polar differences, as a liar and a representation of all things fucked up in the wasteland.

Nick squeezes his hand, tighter. Moves in just a slight closer, eyes always firm. Deacon wants to look away, from it and everything it implies. From all the kindness he doesn’t deserve, kindness Nick’s always given in spades. Nick, who’s everything  _good_  in this world, whose lost his entire damn life, his girl, his  _world_ , his body and his self, and can still give more to the wastes than he takes. Nick, who does  _so much_ , and still believes he doesn’t deserve the praise he gets.

Deacon could live a  _million_  lifetimes, and he’d never deserve Nick Valentine.

“Stop that.” Nick says, again, and he feels a sleeve come to wipe his face and  _hey, pal, aren’t I just the most pathetic mess right now_  — and then, there, again. Yellow eyes. Glowing, golden.  _Home_. Nick takes his hat off, slowly, moves closer. Gives Deacon room to go, if he wants. It doesn’t happen, though, and then they’re... Together. Pressed, forehead to forehead. It takes all the air out of Deacon’s lungs, more than any punch ever could.

“What you’re thinkin’ of. Stop. Listen to me.” Nick says. Gentle, but firm. His touch is warm. 

“You’ve come too far, done too much, to be guilty over somethin’ you couldn’t predict or control.”

Deacon doesn’t know what to say.  _Chalk up another talent for your profile, Nick_ , he wants to say,  _turning a liar speechless_. But he doesn’t. Instead he stares, wide-eyed and  _vulnerable_ , and he can feel the tears burning in the back of his eyes, hot and ashamed, and — more than that, he. He’s  _stunned_ , can’t believe Nick can  _believe_  that, so wholeheartedly, so  _sure_.

( But maybe he can, because Nick’s always believed in that. Because Nick is so good, has always seen the best in people, has always given chances, but always fairly. Kind and just.

The world’s done nothing to deserve someone like Nick Valentine. )

And Deacon doubts he’ll be believing what Nick says anytime soon. He doubts even being  _alive_  for too long, not with the Institute right around the corner, now, with Lamb.

But here. But  _this_ , in the morning, tucked away and safe behind the hushed sound of Diamond City waking up — here, with Nick’s hand warm on his skin, and the press of Nick’s mouth against his (and it’s just, the most  _perfect thing_ , this) warm, good,  _home_ ,  _I’m home_ , and they. Them, holding onto each other, like this moment will be  _enough_  to keep them okay. Like it’s alright, for Deacon to want this — like they’re allowed to want each other, to have this, to be like this. And maybe they do. 

 _Don’t take this one away_ , Deacon finds himself thinking,  _begging,_ to whoever or whatever is listening. And then he’s moving in closer, grabbing Nick by the collar and dragging him closer, kissing him  _back_ , committing the moment to memory, the feeling, like it’s one of the last precious things in this world. Let Shakespeare keep his sonnets, let the Institute have their victories. Let them have this. Let the world keep this. Let them just  _be._

( And maybe, just maybe, one day, Deacon will believe what Nick does. Maybe Nick will believe what Deacon believes about him too, that he is a person in his own right, that he’s allowed to be loved. They both are.

And maybe, finally, things will be okay. )


End file.
